


Break yourself down to remember you're Whole

by CandyCryptids



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Dissociation at its finest, Gore, Kravitz eats glass on an impuslive whim txt it, Kravitz summons himself a body, Messing with the limits of death and conditional immortality, Poor knife safety, Post Eleventh Hour, Skinning, Sometimes Krav doesn't feel real and peels off parts of himself nbd, Taako's mentioned but like. Not crucial., Unscientific knowledge of bodies and magic bullshittery, listen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 14:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12212883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandyCryptids/pseuds/CandyCryptids
Summary: My friend wanted me to write Kravitz and personal casual gore and, uh, so did I.Check the warnings n tags kiddos, please. If I need to add any extra warnings please please let me know





	1. Reminders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kravitz gets back from a date
> 
> Deep thought and uncertainty kick back into old habits

Their first meeting went splendidly, as it had every right to, splendid, and confusing. Taako is an elf wrapped in mystery, swathed in wit, closely guarding his feelings behind snark and humors. Until suddenly he isn't. 

 

_ “I'm worried nobody else will have me.” _

 

_ “Business or Pleasure?“ _

 

Kravitz is back in the astral plane, trying to decide what it all  _ means _ . His hands, a nervous tick, pick at the dried skin on his lower lip. He hasn't made himself a flesh body in some time. Hadn't needed to; was content to spend less energy assuming monstrous forms made of clay, or crystal, or wood. 

 

He picks off a layer of dried skin from his lips. Shudders at the  _ pull _ , the blooming almost warmth from pulling back something that shouldn't have yet, a spot of pain. A reminder. He's still real, even as an emissary of the Raven Queen. 

 

It doesn't stop at the edge of his lip, though. It keeps going, takes part of his cheek with it in a tapering line of dark flesh. He could just let his flesh form melt off, after having damaged it so.

 

He moves to the bathroom instead, strips naked.  Inspects the damage he'd done in the mirror, the slow sludgy ooze of cold blood down his face. Numbness starts in his fingertips, crawls up his arms like vines and spreads through his chest as ink spreads in water. It's an old thought, ever recurring, that surfaces from the dark haze. This isn't his body. His nails dig in for purchase on his jaw, conjured skin bunching under his nails as he drags down, flaying off more of that which didn't _feel_ _real_ anymore, staring his mortal self in the mirror as he takes a much larger piece of himself. Skin tearing with a satisfying series of pops, down his throat, exposing the muscle just below the surface. 

 

Bright red, contrasting almost prettily with the ragged torn edges of his skin. It  _ hurts _ , distantly. The skin stops coming away at his collarbone, snaps off when he pulls too carelessly, and he drops it into the sink. It dissipates into curling smoke, rather than linger, now that it had been removed from it's host. 

 

He starts again, this time on the other side of his face, just below his eye, pulls the skin away and works slowly, like peeling dead skin off of a sunburn. It  _ hurts _ , and he watches himself, locks red eyes with his reflection and watches his upper lip curl back with the discomfort. He exposes his throat more, gathers the skin against his palm and keeps his nails close to his body while he works his way down. Past his collarbone. The damage spreads, two hands now, fanning out over his chest. One pectoral, then the other, watching the muscles twitch when he flexes them. 

 

Further down, still, over his abdomen. He's  _ Alive _ , and it  _ hurts _ , and his heartbeat thuds sluggishly at the abuse he put himself through. He tears the skin off just past his belly button. Drops it on the floor this time with a heavy _ , _ wet  _ schlap.  _

 

The muscles across his chest heave with labored breathing. His fingers tremble, dead leaves clinging to branches, touch his own marred face, his face. His blood. He's  _ real _ .

 

The rest of his skin slides off him as thin wisps of smoke, his muscles, fat, organs. Swept away as if by a breeze, leaving only his bones. 

 

He had been real, alive, mortal, at one point in his life. 

  
A black cloak drops around his shoulders and unfurls like fog, in his hands, a scythe pressed into his palms, born into existence to be held by him.


	2. Glass has delightful Mouth Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice glass of wine after work always takes the edge off. 
> 
> So does death that doesn't stick.

Kravitz regards the wine glass in his hands, the red liquid sloshing languidly in it as he twists his wrist. He'd just brought in another necromancer, this one no older than fifteen, who had been playing with powers he couldn't have understood. It was quiet, easy. A glass of wine before he went back to deal with the paperwork just to take the edge off is just what the doctor ordered. 

 

_ Just take a bite. _ His mind supplies to him, and years of this, of immortality, has removed the initial revulsion to the thought. He brings the glass to his lips, tips it back and drains it, lets the warmth of alcohol burn into his stomach.

 

And he brings his teeth down on the rim. Crunches through pretty, clear glass, wincing and marveling at the sharp cracking noise as it gives way for him. Another bite, another sharp crunch of glass. It didn't taste like anything, at first, letting the shards roll over his tongue, slicing into his gums, his tongue. Oh, iron. Bitter, copper, cool over his tongue. It crunches with an unexpected grit between his teeth, cuts into his soft cheeks.  _ Something like eating a hard candy _ , he thinks to himself. There’s too much in his mouth now, so he does what comes logically next, went eating something, and he  _ swallows _ , chokes on the larger bits that snag in his throat. There's a growing unease and disgust roiling in his gut at the slide of liquid and glass down his throat, suppressing the desire to throw up immediately as his body instinctively fights his bad choices in substance. 

 

He opens his mouth to inhale, coughs some more, blood, and tiny shards of glass into his cupped hand. Every attempt is met with a seizing of his throat, as it fights with the bits of glass lodged in the soft lining of his esophagus.

 

He doesn't need to breathe, but it's still a wave of panic when he simply can't, slamming his hands down on the table and drooling blood on the mahogany surface. His vision fades at the edges, leaving him only able to see the thick blood as it dripped, and he thinks, dimly,  _ Ah, this is what glass feels like in my mouth, how nice. _

 

His flesh body gives out.


End file.
